


The Tower of Hercules

by Thalgrond



Series: Aesha the Undying [1]
Category: Crusader Kings 2 (Video Game), Crusader Kings 3 (Video Game), Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Arranged Marriage, Depression, Epic Battles, F/F, Feudalism, Grief/Mourning, Historical Fantasy, Homophobia, Immortality, Internalized Homophobia, Muslim Character, Politics, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Scars, Slow Burn, Supernatural Events Turned On, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29732085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalgrond/pseuds/Thalgrond
Summary: The recently-crowned sultana Konstantine Petros has fought for years to reunite the fractious Ifriqiya sultanate. In the final days of her unification wars, she receives help from an unexpected source: a regiment of elite warriors sent by Aesha Khalimid, the immortal, enigmatic ruler of the neighboring Undying Empire.After the war, Konstantine is invited to spend the summer with the immortal empress to “discuss politics and plan for the future.” Presented with a chance to form an alliance with the near-mythic woman, the newly-minted queen can hardly refuse. Konstantine's life is about to become very interesting - especially when she begins to develop unexpected feelings, and to discover some details of the romantic history of her hostess.A tale of politics, societal expectations, coping with trauma, and lesbian summer romance.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: Aesha the Undying [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185218
Kudos: 5





	1. The Siege of Sabratah

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently in the middle of a game of Crusader Kings 2, which I have paused in November of the year 997. Aesha Khalimid, my character, achieved immortality a decade after ascending to the throne. That was eighty years ago. Since then, Empress Aesha the Undying has ruled benevolently over the largest empire in the world, stretching from southern France to Lake Chad.
> 
> Things were going smoothly for a while until, a couple of in-game decades ago, a Child of Destiny was born in the neighboring sultanate of Ifriqiya. Sultana Konstantine Petros quickly became the most amazing military commander in the game, and it became clear she was gunning for me.
> 
> But here's the thing: both her character and my own are homosexual. I quickly realized that the only way for me to avoid war was to seduce her.
> 
> This story consists of my imagination of what that may have entailed.

** Sabratah, Libya. June 6th, 997 CE **

Sultana Konstantine’s siege camp splayed out haphazardly around the landward walls of Sabratah. The city itself, with its compact and orderly adobe houses clustered along the docks and its ancient amphitheater at its heart, was dwarfed by the acres upon acres of sun-bleached, wind-ravaged tents and shelters strewn across the desert landscape, interspersed by the commandeered shepherd’s huts, stables, barns and farmhouses which had all temporarily transformed into barracks and supply depots. The city walls were only a few hundred feet away from the nearer edge of the camp, but in the summer heat, they were almost lost in the heat haze playing above the trampled arid farmlands that lay between the camp and the city.

Walking through the streets of this camp was an assault on the senses. Clouds of dust blew constantly, kicked up by the army’s thousands upon thousands of soldiers and pack animals, who trudged through the windy camp with heads downcast to protect their eyes against the sun’s glare and the ever-present blowing sand. The smells of sweat, animals, smoke, spoiled food and the open cesspits at the camp’s edge would have seared the nose right off of anyone not accustomed to the soldierly life.

Buzzing clouds of flies clustered near the storehouses and hospital tents. Shouts, calls, and the constant murmur of half-heard conversation could be heard, both in Arabic and in the half-dozen Berber languages spoken by the inland tribes whose warriors made up the majority of the Sultana’s army. Camels brayed. Horses whinnied. Mules grumbled as they hauled their loads across the camp. As noon approached, Zuhr prayers could be heard emerging from mess tents and storehouses – wherever a group of soldiers could find a moment of free time to offer up their praise and thanks to Allah. Every few minutes, the ruckus was punctuated by the wooden creak and rumble of one of the army’s two trebuchets, and many would stop in the camp’s streets and squint against the sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of the deadly stone that had just been hurled skyward.

Through the bustling camp trudged an old man, his frayed grey beard, broad shoulders, battered armor, and faded white turban doing little to distinguish him from the four other grizzled veterans who trailed along in his wake. In spite of his unassuming appearance, soldiers in front of him parted almost subconsciously, and awed stares followed him down the street towards the large farmhouse at the center of the camp – the temporary command post of the Sultana herself.

Eight soldiers in gleaming splint mail and pointed helms were posted at the entrance to the command post, leaning on their spears and conversing casually among themselves. They looked up as the man approached. One, a handsome young guard with an impressively bushy beard, straightened and began to issue a challenge, but the words died on his lips as he recognized the old man. The visitor simply gave them a curt nod and then breezed past into the farmhouse without so much as a break in his stride. His followers stopped at the entrance, standing in silence with the sultana’s guards. The guards observed the four newcomers with suspicion, with a few even resting their hands on the pommels of their scimitars. The newcomers, for their part, seemed relaxed and at ease. One brought out a pipe and a packet of hashish, which he smilingly offered around.

The inside of the command post was no less chaotic than outside, but it was a restrained sort of chaos, dressed in proper manners and modes of address. Messengers came and went, scribes scribbled down notes and reports, officers talked or argued in every corner and alcove. At the foot of the staircase which led up to the second level, two more guards stood, their watchful eyes peering out from behind the curtains of chainmail that hung down from their helms.

The old man stopped in front of a desk. A reedy little man with a trimmed goatee, his smooth, creamy brown skin lacking the dark tanning seen on most of the soldiers in the camp, looked up from the stack of parchment in front of him.

“Yes?” prompted the secretary. “What can I do for you, sir?” His Arabic was perfect and precise, an impeccable court dialect that would have been at home in the presence of the Caliph himself.

“Gotta see Sultana Konstantine,” rumbled the old man in a barrel-chested baritone. “My men found something bad. She oughta know about it ‘fore th’ rumors start to spread. Give her some time t’ get a handle on th’ story. Announce it how she wants, ‘stead of just letting it leak out.”

The secretary looked displeased by the informality of the man’s speech, and positively winced when he referred to the Sultana by her first name. “I am... sorry, sir, but Her Majesty is in a meeting with her generals at present, and her schedule is full for the rest of the day. Perhaps, if you were to leave a message with me, I could pass it on to the Sultana after supper. If Her Majesty, in her wisdom, chooses to see you, she could then send for you tomorrow.” The secretary, obviously believing his word to be final, lifted his brush from the inkpot and looked up expectantly, waiting for the obviously illiterate soldier to dictate his message.

The soldier snorted. “You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Alexandros of Maghreb, commander of the Muharim Alsahr.” The pale secretary grew a few shades paler. “Now. I’m gonna say this again: I need to go upstairs and see Sultana Konstantine. She’s got to know about what I came to tell her, and she oughta know it quick.”

The secretary sat quietly for a long moment, then tried again, more weakly. “Sir, you may not go up those stairs at the moment. Her Majesty’s generals are meeting with her. They are discussing strategy, making plans for the siege and the remainder of the campaign-”

“And if they want those plans to be any good, they need to know what I know,” interrupted Alexandros. He turned and swept towards the stairs.

“Sir, the generals-” protested the secretary one last time, rising from his chair.

“The generals all know me,” completed Alexandros. The guards at the foot of the stairs stepped forward to intercept him, their scimitars halfway out of their sheaths. Alexandros scoffed. “Stand aside, boys. You’ll be glad you did.” Still, he came to a stop and looked expectantly back towards the secretary.

The other officers in the room were beginning to notice that something was going on. More hands were laid on pommels as their owners each tried to decide whose side they would take if this situation erupted into violence. The secretary’s eyes flitted around the room, unable to meet Alexandros’ steely gaze.

Finally, he sighed in defeat and waved to the guards to stand down. “Allow him to pass. He is a member of Her Majesty’s command staff, and he bears an important message.” The soldier smiled tightly, gave the secretary a slight bow, and marched off up the stairs. As soon as he was out of sight, the secretary collapsed back into his chair like a puppet with cut strings. “I suppose we’re just ignoring all traces of protocol today,” he muttered to himself. “Maghrebi savages...”

\-----

“We have had reports of three more desertions since our last meeting, Your Majesty,” said the man with the well-groomed white mustache and beard. “Our watchmen captured one of the offenders and he has been put in the stocks, but the other two are still...” He faltered and looked towards the door as Alexandros entered. Several of the other members of the command staff did the same.

The men sitting around the large mahogany table were all impeccably dressed. Silk and fine cotton, every inch of it embroidered with floral and abstract designs, adorned the aristocratic command staff of the sultana’s army. Silver goblets full of rich red wine stood in stark contrast to the bare white walls and exposed wooden framework of the house. Gold thread flashed and glinted in the dusty noonday sunlight leaking in through the open windows. In spite of the meager breeze that flowed through those windows, the war room was swelteringly hot. Unsurprisingly, given the sheer amount of fine fabric visible, the chamber smelled strongly of sweat, nearly overpowering the many scents of the perfume worn by the men in attendance. Several of the command staff were fanning themselves energetically with decorated cloth fans.

The woman at the head of the table cleared her throat, re-centering the focus of the generals. She was a living legend, and Alexandros was always surprised by her small stature when he saw her in person. In spite of her long-legged runner's physique, Sultana Konstantine was a woman of at-most average height. She barely came up to mid-chest on most of her commanders, yet somehow Alexandros always got the impression that she towered over him.

She was a pale creature - far more so than any of the men in the war room - displaying her French and Greek ancestry. Her mother had been born in the lands of the short-lived French Sayyid Sultanate before it had fallen to the second crusade, and her father had been a mid-ranking count in the Byzantine Empire's island holdings. Her ascension from a foreign-born diplomat's daughter to the ruler of the re-unified sultanate had been quick, remarkable, and incredibly bloody. Legends were already being told about her exploits, even though the ink had yet to dry on them.

In spite of the sultana's remarkable history and high station, her garb was relatively plain when compared to the sumptuously-dressed commanders around her: she wore a simple blue robe accented with glittering metal beads and a matching headscarf, with a functional scimitar leaning against the bare wall behind her. Konstantine needed no finery to display her authority. It radiated off her like heat from a fire.

“Shut the door, Alex. We’ll get to you soon. Samir, proceed.”

As Alexandros eased the door shut and made his way to an empty chair, Samir ibn Shujah, grand vizier of Ifriqiya, returned his attention to the commanding woman. “Ah, yes, Your Majesty. Ahem... Additionally, there have been four incidents of violence in the camp – and likely many more that have not been reported to my office, given the tribes’ propensity for refusing royal interference in their conflicts. These Berbers of yours are an unruly bunch. Capable, I’ll grant them. Better riders I’ve never seen. Yet I fear tribal tensions may be reaching a head. We’ve been here for three weeks now, and the warriors have had little to do in that time. Idle hands seek action, and idle hands that hold blades will doubtless find it. Divisions are being felt in the camp, particularly between the Gafsa and Tebessa contingents. Last night, a number of drunk Gafsid tribesmen attempted to set fire to the Tebessid section of the camp. Thankfully they were discovered by the quartermaster’s men, not by the Tebessids themselves. The quartermaster was able to rush to the scene and deescalate the situation. If they had been found by the Tebessids, bloodshed would have been inevitable.”

“...Which would weaken the very foundation of the sultanate,” added the sultana, shaking her head in disgust. “Their chiefs have been at each other’s throats for years, but I’ve kept them busy until now. Allah save us from bored idiots... Very well. Send my compliments to the quartermaster, as well as three casks of the Burgundian 972* from my personal cellar. Ensure that he knows I expect him to share the wine with his men at their next celebration. Meanwhile, I think it’s best we separate the Tebessa and Gafsa contingents.”

“I could not agree more, Your Majesty. With your permission, I shall instruct both to break down their camps and move to opposite ends of the camp. A hassle, I know, but I fear that only moving one tribe would be seen as preferential treatment.”

The sultana nodded. “Good idea, Samir. I’m glad to see you’ve given it thought. I’d like to have the contingents moved and settled into their new positions by tomorrow evening.”

“I shall do my best, Your Majesty,” Samir replied with a bow. “Yet I fear that the Gafsids’ unruliness may cause some delays.”

“If that proves to be the case, send any troublemakers to me directly. I’ll make time in my schedule to smack some sense into them in the sparring ring.” She flicked two fingers in dismissal, and the vizier sank back into his seat, his mouth snapping shut before he could voice any further concerns. The court was well versed in the sultana’s gestures, and that one meant "I trust your judgment, stop bothering me with details."

“Now, to other matters,” Sultana Konstantine said, turning her attention to the newcomer. She shifted almost imperceptibly in her seat, abandoning some of the stiffness and formality with which she customarily addressed most of her courtiers. “Alex. Good to see you haven’t changed. I didn’t even know you were back in camp, and you barge into a staff meeting unannounced?” She grinned like a fox finding a hole in a henhouse wall. “Knowing you, I bet you’re carrying dramatic news.”

Alexandros bobbed his head in confirmation. “Aye. That’s one way t’ put it. Rode as hard as I could t’ get it to you on time. So here goes: the rebel army is on the march. Scouts say they were in Misrata ‘bout two weeks ago. Resupplied there, then kept marching west, headed straight for us. We make them eight thousand men in the main column, perhaps another four thousand in a second column marching further inland. My spies tell me the traitorous Emir Ramadan is leading the main army personally.”

The command room was silent for several long moments as the generals took in the old warrior’s words. Each was calculating travel times in their heads and working out routes of advance or retreat based on the specific general’s predilections. Gradually, inexorably, all eyes turned back to the sultana as if drawn by a lodestone. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes closed. She remained that way for several long moments.

There were no good maps of the sultanate of Ifriqiya – none with enough detail to be strategically useful. Unlike the neighboring Undying Khalimid Empire, renowned for its fabulous wealth, sultana Konstantine couldn’t afford to educate hundreds of cartographers and then put them to work for years at a time making detailed maps of her domain. The sultana was, therefore, remarkable in her ability to visualize the totality of the realm’s landscape, complete with its roads, cities, castles, and internal borders. She was among the most respected military thinkers alive, in spite of her youth and her gender, and it was feats like this that earned her that respect.

“We have time, but not much of it,” she announced at last. She had a tendency to speak while planning. It helped her to arrange her thoughts, and it gave her commanders opportunities to chime in if they had anything to add. “The smaller army is trekking through difficult country, even for a small party. For a force as large as they are their advance will be a crawl. We can safely discount them for now. As for the main column, they must be taking the coast road. That means they can’t be nearer than Tripoli by now, and we captured the castle there weeks ago. They’ll have to besiege it or go around, and either option will delay them. If I were in Emir Ramadan Aghlabid’s place, I would choose to go around, hoping to break the siege before Sabratah fell. However, the emir has never been a great military thinker. He has memorized the rules of strategy without ever understanding the reasons for those rules, and as such he is blind to possible exceptions to them. One rule that he has internalized in this way is as follows: ‘never leave an enemy stronghold in your rear.’ Indeed, it’s a rule I taught him during his brief stint as one of my commanders.”

She smirked. “Of course, one should never base a strategy on an assumption of enemy incompetence. Even if I’m correct in my estimation of the emir’s shortsightedness, his own command staff may very well talk him into a more aggressive maneuver. If that is the case, however, we have a week before their arrival. It’s only two days’ ride to Tripoli, but given the emir’s supply issues and sloppy formations he’ll be moving slowly. Even so, if he reaches us here, we could very well find ourselves either driven away from the siege camps or, worse, sandwiched between the emir's army and the city garrison.”

“So what does Your Majesty suggest?” prompted the dutiful commander two seats to her left, sensing his cue.

“The Gafsid contingent that has been giving us such trouble lately happens to contain many of the army’s best scouts – the Muharim Alsahr aside, of course.” She bowed her head respectfully toward Alexandros, who smiled in well-earned pride. “I think it’s time to give these gifted men something to do besides pursuing old rivalries. Alex, you will lead your own men and the Gafsids to Tripoli. Delay the enemy as much as you can without risk to your men, and send back reports on their positions and activity. While you delay the emir, the majority of our army will remain here and prepare for an assault on the city. Once it's taken and our rear is secured, we'll move to meet up with you.”

“I’m not certain we have enough time for that, Your Majesty,” pointed out a devilishly handsome man with a black goatee seated immediately to her right. Imraan Aghlabid was the sultana’s head marshal, her second-in-command in times of war. He happened to also be the younger brother of the traitorous Emir Ramadan. As such, he had been energetically demonstrating his loyalty to the sultana ever since the Aghlabid rebellion had begun. “The siege of Sabratah will likely drag on for several weeks yet before the mayor considers surrender. We’ve only just managed to seal the holes in our naval blockade – Sabratah was still resupplying from the sea up until a few days ago.”

“You’re right, Imraan,” she acknowledged. “We’ve been pounding at them with the trebuchets for some time now, but I don’t think the city council is quite getting desperate yet. We may have to abandon the siege in the end, but before we give up hope, we have a few days to work with before our scouts get back to us. Let’s see if we can think of a way to profitably spend that time. Tell me honestly, Imraan: if I order our men to begin making assaults, do you believe we could take the city within the week?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Majesty. We have yet to open enough breaches in their walls to make taking them feasible without ladders and ropes, nor have we completed the siege ramp we’ve been constructing against their walls. The losses in a direct assault would be... suffice to say, your majesty, they aren’t the sort of losses you would wish to have immediately before marching off to battle against a foe as numerous as this rebel army.”

“What about the ships?” she asked immediately. “We have most of the ships of our blockade stationed down the coast. We could quietly load the galleys with troops over the course of the next couple of days. Then if we made a false probing attack from the landward side, fell back for the night, and encamped just beyond arrow range, the defenders would be forced to defend the walls. We could sneak in our ships under cover of darkness, dock at dawn as soon as it was light enough to be safe...”

Imraan was squinting into the middle distance. The wheels in his head were clearly spinning very fast as he considered the sultana’s proposed tactic – seemingly something she had come up with off the cuff. “I... hmm. Perhaps, your majesty. I’ll have to discuss this with the ships’ captains.”

“Best start riding, then,” Konstantine said with a grin. “The blockade’s galleys are docked six miles away, and I want a definite answer by tomorrow morning. Find out whether it’s possible, and if it is bring the captains with you when you ride back. We’ll work out specifics next time this council meets – tomorrow before noon. Agreed? Good.” She looked around the war room, saw no more commanders raising hands, and nodded decisively. “Meeting adjourned. Alex, it’s good to see you again. Now go prepare your men and gather the Tebessa contingent. I want you out of here as soon as possible.”

"Yes, ma'am." A few nostrils flared among the command staff at Alexandros' omittance of a proper 'Your Majesty,' but the sultana made no sign of displeasure, heading off any objections before they could be voiced. The looks the commanders shot in Alexandros' direction ranged from intrigue to seething fury, as each man present knew that he couldn't have gotten away with such informality.

Alex stood, along with the rest of the commanders, and began to file out with them. However, he paused at the doorway and turned back towards the sultana, who was buckling on her sword belt and adjusting her headscarf. Imraan, the marshal, was the last man to leave the room, and he closed the door behind him, leaving Alexandros momentarily alone in the room with his young ruler.

"Ah... ma'am," Alexandros said, "There's another thing I should mention 'fore I head off again - a rumor. Not something my scouts could confirm. But some locals we spoke to - some Tuareg slaves - said they'd seen strange folk recently. Men coming in out the desert from away southwards, riding a long train of camels. An army, they said, not merely a procession or a caravan. A thousand at least, with many women among them, but all of 'em armed and armored just like the men. And they wore black, green, and gold."

"Khalimid colors!" snapped Konstantine, looking up sharply. She gave her sword belt a final practiced adjustment without looking.

"Worse," Alexandros said grimly. "Muharim Alsahr colors."

Alexandros had been a member of the Muharim Alsahr, the personal army of Empress Aesha Khalimid, for over two decades before he came to sultana Konstantine's service, bringing with him a little over fifty other defectors. The Muharim were recruited from all across the empire, from Portugal to Ethiopia, selected from only the best warriors each of the empire's vassals had to offer. It was, quite simply, the most elite, best trained, and most well-equipped army on Earth.

"Where were they? How long ago?" demanded Konstantine.

"Not sure, ma'am. It was a 'cousin of a friend of a neighbor' type situation - never got to talk to the guy who claimed to have actually seen them."

"You sound frightened of them," the sultana observed. "I'm not sure I've ever seen you actually frightened of somebody before."

"Yeah, well... if you had met some of the people I used to work with, you'd be scared, too. Each and every one of 'em is just as deadly and sneaky as I am, and most of 'em aren't nearly so nice." He grimaced. Alexandros of Maghreb, although his past was common knowledge, rarely spoke about his time serving the Khalimid Empire. He was already distrusted and resented. There was no point giving his detractors ammunition by bringing up his history of switching loyalties.

"Me my fifty-five? We're the nice ones. Most of 'em are nasty pieces of work. The Muharim have existed for a century and a half, and they've never lost a battle, even when they were outnumbered three or five to one. There are only a few thousand of 'em, scattered across the whole empire, but nobody dares go against the empress' will for fear of 'em. That takes a special kind o' crazy, and a special kind o' scary. For them - for us - every day is either spent fighting or prepping for the next fight. They move like nobody else: almost unseen, never short on supplies, and faster than any other army can ever hope to match. I tell you what, ma'am: if there really are Muharim roaming around in your sultanate, they could be anywhere by now, doing anything, and we'd never know until they decided to show us what they've been up to. Best just hope the Undying Empress means us well."


	2. The Assault Begins

** Sabratah, Libya. June 11th, 997 CE **

In the darkness of a moonless night, an hour before dawn, Sultana Konstantine Petros finished her early Fajr prayer, rose from her prayer rug, and began to buckle on her sword by the light of a single oil lamp.

The weapon was functional rather than pretty. Sultana Konstantine had worn this scimitar at her side every day since the Aghlabid rebellion had begun – not that it had ever been far from her before then. The emir’s betrayal, however, had done no favors to her sense of security.

She should have seen it coming sooner, she reflected. That snake Emir Ramadan had always rubbed her the wrong way. It was something about the way he smiled at her; too many teeth, too little warmth...

She adjusted the belt to keep the sheath from banging into her legs; jumped experimentally, feeling the weight of her armor; walked about the room; tightened the sword belt by another notch.

She had met Ramadan long before her conquests had begun, back when she was just a Christian Byzantine diplomat’s daughter. She had been brought along, at her own insistence and begging, on a political expedition to stabilize the turmoil of the former sultanate of Ifriqiya. Konstantine had learned a lot during that journey

Ramadan had been one of the first people her father had met with. It had made sense to go to Emir Ramadan first. After all, he was directly descended from the last man to rule over a unified Ifriqiya, and at the time he had seemed to be on the verge of reuniting his grandfather’s domain: his emirate was the largest of the warring factions, and his coalition at the time had included two other emirs and several influential tribal leaders, such that he dominated the whole eastern half of the sultanate – the same half that now supported him in his revolt.

She checked her face in the mirror; tisked in disapproval; lit another lamp to give her enough light to touch up her makeup.

Even in that first meeting, she had gotten a sense of condescension from the emir, as though he was doing her father an immense favor by agreeing to meet. She had also sensed that, to him, the idea of bringing a woman to an important diplomatic meeting was... not scandalous; that would imply he had cared. He had seen her as quaint – an even worse insult by Konstantine’s reckoning.

Of course, his tune had changed by the time he came to her two years ago, just after her victory at the battle of Tala, to swear his fealty. She wondered if he had already planned this rebellion back when he swore himself to her service. She doubted it. The emir was an opportunist, not a strategist. He was a vulture foolish enough to challenge the lioness for a bigger share of the kill.

Through the thin floorboards, Konstantine could hear the command post coming to life below her feet. It was still dark outside, but there was much to be done in the hour before dawn: today was the day of the assault. She stepped back to examine herself once more in the mirror. Satisfied, she snuffed both lamps and left the room, descending to the first floor in darkness.

The command post was illuminated by pools of warm lamp and candle-light around each writing desk. Scribes bent low over their notes and ledgers, many of them transcribing the orders and messages that were being issued by the many runners and officers. People came and went, bustling just as fast as they did during the daytime, but their voices were noticeably more subdued. Even on an eventful morning like this, it still felt wrong to disturb the silence before dawn.

A sentinel at the foot of the stairs slammed the butt of his spear against the ground, announcing Sultana Konstantine’s presence. Chairs scraped and boots thudded as every man in the room leapt to attention, but she quickly waved them back to their previous tasks. The scribes sat back down, but there was a further moment of quiet uncertainty.

 _Oh, I may as well say something,_ Konstantine thought. _Frustration has been piling up in the war room since the siege started. Given how hard they’ve been working, a morale boost is in order._

“Thank you all for your diligence. Many of you, I know, must feel forgotten. The life of a messenger or a logistics expert is far from glamorous. But rest assured, I have not forgotten you, and I am duly grateful for all your efforts in this war,” the sultana said into the silence. She stepped into the light of a lamp so that the scribes and officers could see her grateful smile. “You have worked tirelessly and showed remarkable resourcefulness in keeping the army organized and cohesive. Thanks to all of you, our victory today is assured. Tomorrow, when we feast triumphant within the walls of Sabratah, you will drink from the mayor’s own silver goblets like the conquerors you are.”

A laugh and a cheer filled the command post. The sultana let it last for several long moments, still smiling, with a hand raised to indicate she wasn’t done speaking. Once the room was again quiet enough for her to be heard, she continued:

“Now, I must go consult with my commanders at the front. I’ll see all of you after the assault. As you were.”

A murmur grew in the room as the officers and messengers continued their messages and orders where they had left off, and the scribes picked up their brushes and resumed the process of transcribing those words into the long, flowing lines of Arabic script. Sultana Konstantine walked past them all and towards the dim silhouette waiting for her in the doorway.

“You know how to assure loyalty, Your Majesty, I’ll give you that,” commented marshal Imraan Aghlabid. Even in the dark, his gold-inlaid armor and the calligraphic prayers embroidered on his cloak stood out among the austere clothing of the rest of the army. His plumed helm, etched with floral imagery, was held under his arm. “They’re going to want to keep the goblets, you know.”

“Of course,” Konstantine replied. “And they’ll _get_ to keep them. If the mayor doesn’t like it, I’ll let the little traitor know exactly where he can shove his complaints.” She clapped Imraan on the armored shoulder on her way past, then led him out into the night in the direction of the city – visible by the distant lamps and torches lining its walls. Two guards standing outside the command post smoothly detached themselves from the doorway and fell in behind her.

The marshal had much longer legs than his liege, but even so, he struggled to keep pace with her as she strode through the camp. “The mayor isn’t the one I’m worried about, your majesty,” he said, breaking into a jog to draw level with her. “I was speaking with the steward’s secretary yesterday, and he tells me the treasury could use any spoils we can acquire after the siege.”

“Our treasury, at present, is primarily used to secure the loyalty of my vassals and men. That is what I’m using these goblets for. As for other spoils: I’ll take some of the mayor’s things as a tax on treachery, but I want to see as little looting as possible once we’re inside the city. These are my subjects, even if mayor Jamal has temporarily forgotten that fact.”

“I’ll let the men know. Regular spoils of war only. Salt, cutlery, and food.”

“Good. We understand each other.”

She raised a hand in greeting to a passing group of Berber tribesmen, riding on camel-back through the camp in a tight clump. One, a big man with a tangled black beard, gave her a gap-toothed grin, pumping his fist and shouting something in his local tongue. There were several Berber languages spoken within Konstantine’s realm and she was far from fluent in any of them, but she had heard this phrase enough to recognize it: “Konstantine the Great, lead us to glory!” She inclined her head to the man but kept moving. Her trailing guardsmen eyed the camel riders with suspicion until they were out of sight.

“But I must ask, your majesty, what _are_ you planning to do about the state of the treasury? You aren’t the immortal empress. We don’t have limitless funds.”

They were nearing the edge of the camp now. Up ahead, in the empty space between the camp’s palisades and the walls of the city, she could hear the sounds of a gathering crowd. Torchlight trickled over the tents and barricades. Somewhere very nearby, a trebuchet creaked and rumbled, continuing its day-and-night task of battering the walls of Sabratah in preparation for the attack.

Konstantine smirked. “If you’re so concerned about the treasury, maybe you could sell that extravagant get-up you’re wearing and keep the army funded for another month or two.”

Imraan guffawed. “It’s not _that_ extravagant.”

“If you say so,” she replied with a shrug. “I suppose I should be grateful. I doubt the enemy will even notice me, what with you preening about the battlefield.”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Oh! You wound me, your majesty!”

“You’ll be wounded plenty if you’re not careful. If I were an Aghlabid archer, you’d be my first target.” She gave him a playful nudge, then led the way through the wooden gate in the palisade and out into the fields where her army was assembling.

It was impossible to make out details beyond a few paces, but the clusters of torches scattered across the plains revealed the sheer scale of the operation. Sporadic flames flickered against the darkness in a wide, straggling arc that wrapped all the way around the landward side of the city, with each sweeping wing extending nearly a mile out from the core of the camp. These torches congregated together in small groups, indicating where each company or regiment had gathered to say their Fajr prayers, check their equipment, drink to ease their nerves, or relax as best they could amidst the tension and jitters that were always present on the morning of battle. Between these groups wove other torches, indicating where small groups or individual men carried messages and supplies. Patches of firelight and tents revealed the locations of makeshift field hospitals, where medics and soldiers’ wives busied themselves soaking bandages in alcohol and preparing triage areas for the horror to come.

“You’re needed on the left flank,” Sultana Konstantine commented to Imraan as soon as the pair were on open ground. She turned towards him and smiled with expertly-projected confidence. Illumination flickered across her face from the torches mounted on supply carts and carried by passing soldiers. “I’ll see you during the assault. Remember: no looting.”

She clapped him on the shoulder once more and then set off towards her waiting horse and the block of soldiers who were slowly forming up to become the assault’s central line. Marshal Imraan watched her go, noting how naturally she slipped into the command role. Within moments she was surrounded by company and regimental commanders, but she controlled the cluster of officers with the grace and efficiency of a general twice her age.

As soon as sultana Konstantine was out of earshot, Fadl ibn Nasr, secretary to the steward of Ifriqiya, materialized out of the crowd next to the marshal. “So? What did she say?” he asked.

“She, um...” Imraan paused, only just now realizing that the sultana had never actually answered the question of how she planned to solve the realm’s revenue problems. “Huh,” was all he said.

\-----

The oar dug into Omar’s calloused palms, and the hard wooden bench crushed cruelly into his bottom. Usually, he would have gotten up and taken a turn about the _Ibis’_ deck, but tonight, with the ship packed to the gills with soldiers, there wasn’t enough space to stand up, let alone take a walk.

 _Ibis_ was lying at-anchor, dark and silent, half a mile from the waterfront of Sabratah. Although the dark night and the warm mist rising off the Mediterranean ensured that nobody on shore could have spotted the ship or her four consorts, they were still easily within earshot of the city, so the captain had given all the oarsmen and soldiers strict instructions to remain totally silent before they left, and the sergeants were staring down anyone who so much as whispered to the other members of their oar crew.

Omar’s mouth tasted sour. His team’s waterskin had run empty an hour ago, and he regretted not packing a second one. It was, all things considered, an extremely uncomfortable experience, sitting here waiting for the signal.

 _At least we won’t have to wait much longer,_ he thought, peering towards the grey light that was beginning to seep over the eastern horizon. _If we wait much longer, it will get light enough for the rebels to spot us out here, and this whole headache of an attack plan will be for nothing._

On the dark and crowded deck, it was impossible to see the captain, but Omar glanced in the direction of the looming aft-castle, anticipating the order. His hands tightened. He could feel his pulse thumping in his palms against the unyielding oar...

\-----

“Well, the first step seems to have worked,” Konstantine noted conversationally, watching torch-carrying defenders scampering back and forth along the city walls in the distance. “We’ve certainly got their attention. Now we just need to keep their eyes focused on us and away from the sea.”

“Indeed, your majesty,” agreed the stubbly-faced teenager mounted beside her. He carried her furled-up banner wrapped around a flagstaff and stared ahead with square-jawed self-seriousness. “I bet the ships are in position by now.”

“One can only pray, Idris,” Konstantine said, frowning towards the eastern horizon. “One way or another, we’re out of time.”

Young Idris was the son of a powerful Berber shiekh who had been a staunch supporter of Konstantine since the very beginning of her unification wars. Shiekh Arif was getting old and frail now, and he seemed to be intent on spending his last few years setting up his family members for promising futures. Konstantine was happy to oblige if it meant ensuring his tribe’s loyalty going forward – even if that did mean appointing a scrawny pimple-faced youth as her standard-bearer.

Her horse – a big grey charger named Storm, with a temper and lack of patience that was infamous among the stablehands – snorted and scuffed her hoof in the dirt. She had been inching forward, step by step, for the past several minutes, easing Konstantine out in front of the formation. Konstantine had let her advance until she was a good thirty feet ahead of the wall of massed spearmen who made up the main line. Now she reined Storm in – the beast to tossed her mane irritably but complied – and turned to the arrayed soldiers.

“Our foe stands ready for us!” she called out, raising her voice loud enough for her people to hear her over the quiet rattle of a thousand armored men at rest. “Or so they believe! They have no idea what we truly have in store for them. Keep it that way! Make noise, draw their eyes and their ears, make them engage with you, but take no needless risks! I appreciate your loyalty and your skill, and I don’t wish to lose you! Do your duty, I will do mine, and I will see you all at the feast when we celebrate our victory!”

A soldier in the front line began to pound the butt of his spear in the dirt. The action was taken up by warriors around him, and then throughout the formation, until nearly a thousand spears were drumming on the dusty ground in unison. The swordsmen and axemen added their own crashing to the mix, slamming their weapons against their shields. Thunderous echoes rang off the distant city walls. Off to either side, answering thunder sounded as the wings picked up the commotion and added their own noise to it.

Pitching her voice lower, Konstantine leaned towards Idris. “Sound the horn, then stick close to me. Remember, if you lose sight of me, stay where you are and I’ll come to you. The banner is visible, so I’ll be able to see you even if you can’t see me.” She squinted in the darkness, trying to make out the young lieutenant’s expression under his helmet. “Are you ready for this?”

The only response she got was a jerky nod, followed by Idris raising a horn to his lips and blowing a bone-shaking, eye-watering blast. A second blast followed a moment later, and then a long, drawn-out drone. Storm capered nervously under Konstantine at the noise, but it was almost drowned out a moment later by the battle cry that went up from the throats of three thousand loyalist warriors as they surged forwards towards the walls of Sabratah.

\-----

Omar’s ears perked up as the distant shout of thousands of voices rang out across the water – easily audible even from over a mile away and on the other side of a city’s walls.

“That’s it,” declared the captain’s voice from up on the stern-castle. His voice was gruff. Business-like. Calming, given the situation. “Slow ahead, and keep quiet. Let’s go give the mayor a surprise.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Although most characters in the story would speak of dates in terms of the Hijri lunar calendar, counting from Muhammad’s migration to Medina, I will be providing dates in the more common Gregorian form. Consider it a matter of translation: just as the medieval Arabic spoken by these characters becomes English for the sake of the story, the Sultana’s 361 Burgundian vintage becomes a 972.


End file.
